Alright, just to preface - this is old. Really old. We're talking early 2008-ish? I'm aware that it may be a little bit odd, but that's why I think I still like it. And, besides that, I'm throwing a little bit of everything up here, so why not this? :)
In some respects, it wasn't fury that kept Judge Turpin stalking away from Sweeney Todd's barber shop. There was, in fact, a twinge of fear.
The sailor boy had stopped following him a while back, but Turpin hardly paid any attention. He marched inside of his home and locked the door before heading to the back of the house as if he were trying to get as far away as he could from the barber shop.
Try as he might, Judge Turpin was not as successful at abandoning his thoughts. He pushed them as far back as he could as he hurried to his study, closing and locking that door behind him as well. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. Turpin walked forward, finally allowing his steps to slow and stagger before he collapsed into a large armchair. He tried to get his breath under control as he poured himself a glass of brandy. Everything was going to be fine. In the glass, he saw that a bit of the shaving cream still remained, and with a trembling hand, he reached up to wipe it off.
The barber had had the palest, almost delicate hands. It was one of the first things Turpin noticed; the careful way he handled the razor was hard to ignore. There was an elegant air with which the barber's hands had moved that was strikingly reminiscent of -
Turpin didn't dare think it. He took a sip of his brandy to drown the thought and tightly squinted his eyes shut. When he opened them, the thought was still there.
Johanna.
The very idea consumed him, and suddenly Judge Turpin couldn't not associate the barber from his own beautiful ward.
He saw her in the way Mister Todd had moved, even in the memory of his voice. They hadn't really been so similar, so equally appealing, had they? He couldn't recall. He remembered his eyes, the way they'd resembled hers: dark and deep and practically soulless yet stunningly beautiful and seeming to go on forever. Even in the structure of the barber's face... It was almost as if the two were related, to be honest.
But Benjamin barker was dead or worse; Judge Turpin had seen to that himself.
But really, it wouldn't be so terrible, would it? It was more than obvious that Johanna didn't want him, the way she was cavorting with that sailor so. It was unnervingly easy to satisfy himself with ideas of the barber, his pale skin, elegant airs, and slight form, the secretive smirk that had played on his lips. It was far too easy, and it was what made Turpin fling himself out of the armchair, breathing labored as he tore apart his study in search of the one thing that could make him stop.
He shouldn't have been thinking those things. It was wrong; he was a judge, for Christ's sake; he had to uphold morals and the law and where was his goddamned whip? He cried out in fear and agony and frustration mixed with sheer want and he marched to get the bottle of brandy. He downed almost half in one large swig, and he took a deep breath.
Everything was going to be fine. Johanna was upstairs. Of course, the sailor was exaggerating; he needn't entertain such thoughts. He'd check on her later, after he'd regained his wits. She wouldn't leave him to his own devices in this state - he needed her.
Everything was fine.